


And Our Vow Remember

by Thrandilf



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-07 18:24:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12846921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thrandilf/pseuds/Thrandilf
Summary: The House of Finwë was always destined for infamy. This is an exploration of the lives of Finwë's children and grandchildren, stripped of the grandeur that The Silmarillion devotes to them. The chapters frame their fights, fears, and disasters – but also their joys, love, and victories.





	And Our Vow Remember

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction is intended to be an abbreviated, character-driven translation of selected elements of The Silmarillion. I am aiming to characterize the House of Finwë for those who are interested in the events before The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, but who are for any reason unable to read the whole damn textbook. My love for these characters runs deep; however, The Silmarillion can be a bit inaccessible and scholarly, so the complex personalities of these characters can be lost. 
> 
> In order to simplify the timeline, I am treating Years of the Trees as Years of the Sun; additionally, several battles, sieges, and political upheavals will be shortened for ease of understanding. I am only using the simplest colloquial names for the elves and Valar. Characters, warnings, and tags will be added as chapters are added.
> 
> There is also considerable adherence to non-official headcanons, both of my own and from others.

    “And it came to pass that Ilúvatar called together all the Ainur and declared to them a mighty theme, unfolding to them things greater and more wonderful than he had yet revealed.” Indis raised her pale hands in a flourish, grinning at her children’s expressions of wonder and confusion. The book sat on the floor in front of them, still on the title page. So many times had Indis read the story that she no longer needed to look at the book Finwë commissioned years ago as a wedding gift.

    “Nana, how is it even possible to ‘sing’ things into being?” asked Findis, her brows scrunched down as she crossed her arms. “There is no proof the Ainur did any of that.”

    “There is no proof that they did otherwise, either,” replied Indis. Her daughter had begun to ask all the questions that the other mothers had warned about; they said that this would be a trying time. Indis found it endearing, though, and seldom grew weary of answering endless queries about how Varda managed to put all the stars in the sky, there are billions and no one has that much patience or time, that is completely ridiculous.

    A loud _thump_ made Indis look away from her children and to the shelves across the library. There stood Fëanor, facing the books, a large tome laying at his feet. He seemed to ignore it and continued running his hands over the volumes, clearly searching for something.

    “Fëanor.”

    No answer came. Indis waited a few moments, then raised her voice slightly.

    “ _Fëanor_.”

    “What?” he snapped, dropping one hand to his side and turning around just enough for Indis to be able to see the straight outline of his nose.

    “Please put the book back in its place,” Indis said, lowering her voice back to a normal volume. Her step-son picked up the tome with an audible _hmph_ , smacked a bit of dust off the front, and shoved it back in the space it came from, black hair swinging as he moved. Fëanor had just entered his third decade, which was known to be a truly hard set of years for parents, and the resentment he felt towards his step-mother and siblings was becoming clearer than ever. Despite this, Indis felt she could still show that she loved him, and tried on many occasions, never becoming discouraged.

    “Why don’t you come and listen to the Ainulindalë with your siblings?” she asked, making certain her smile came across clearly in her voice.

    “I have already heard that boring story a hundred times,” Fëanor replied, speaking into the books.

    “Well, you have never heard me tell it,” said Indis, trying not to sound impatient. “Come, Fëanor, spend some time with your family. I’m sure your father would appreciate it.”

    At that, Fëanor whipped around, his eyes blazing.

    “What would you know about what my father wants?” There was a slight quiver in his voice, but he continued, curling his hands into fists. “You are no more my family than I am yours, and I am tired of your attempts to try and win my love!”

    Indis did not break eye contact with him, keeping her gaze soft.

    “I am not trying to win anything. We only want to include you, for you are indeed family, and it would do your siblings good to know their elder brother.” She ran a hand through Fingolfin’s black hair, careful to keep her voice down. Fëanor had become visibly enraged, hands shaking. Many times had Indis discussed the best way to relate to her step-son with her friends. They always told her to speak to Finwe, but he had so many responsibilities, and Indis could never bring herself to coax him into such a stressful conversation. Fëanor stepped forward, and Findis flinched away, curling her fingers around Indis’s sleeve.

    “There is no way for me to consider the whore who tempted my father to be part of my family!”

    Fëanor’s shout rang through the library, and was met with absolute silence. Tears came to Indis’s eyes momentarily, but she steeled herself as she rose to her feet. She was the same height as her step-son, and met his dark eyes with her own.

    “Perhaps you need time to calm down,” she said softly, not breaking eye contact. “Please return when you can speak to me with respect.”

    “Piss off!” shouted Fëanor. His boots hit the floor tiles with resonating cracks as he stamped away, leaving Indis standing in the middle of the library. A quiet sniffling sounded behind her, and she turned to see Fingolfin patting Findis’s head as she wiped her eyes. Indis crouched next her children.

    “He is just angry, my love, do not cry,” she cooed, taking her daughter into her arms.

    “Why does he always shout at you, Nana? Why is he so mean?” Findis mumbled, burying her face in Indis’s robe. Fingolfin lifted his arms in a request to be held as well, a confused look on his face.

    “It is his years, darling. This is common behavior at his age.”

    “But he has been like this forever,” replied Findis, lifting her head and frowning. Indis opened her mouth to respond, but could not come up with anything to refute her daughter’s comment. Findis was right. Since her engagement to Finwë, Indis had been a target for Fëanor’s animosity, even before his adolescence. A dull fear crept into her chest as she thought about the possibility that her step-son would always hate his father’s second family. She took a breath, hugged her children tight, and shook away the awful thought.

 

* * *

 

    Back in his chambers, Fëanor kicked the wood of his bed hard. The low _thunk_ of Fëanor’s foot against the bedpost only angered him more, and he groaned into a pillow. He genuinely believed his bitterness toward Indis was justified, but his outburst had been inappropriate, and his lack of self-control made him feel foolish. His smithing master Mahtan had said that elves his age were prone to irrational behavior, especially those of high status, but Fëanor had never seen someone call another elf a whore. The concept was an evil one created by the now-repentant Melkor, and existed only in the strongholds of demons and dark Men beyond the ice lands. The word was never used except in academia. Fëanor was embarrassed to have used it in insult, even if it was toward an elleth he hated.

    After a few minutes of wallowing on his bed, Fëanor decided to visit the forge. There was no greater joy to him than working with his hands; perhaps today he could finish the clay steamer he had promised to Mahtan’s daughter months ago. The guilt of tossing that project aside would occasionally bite at him when he saw the young elleth carrying tools to her father’s workshop. She was a sculptor, and though she was only in her late second decade, she was already highly skilled in bust-making. Fëanor struggled to remember her name as he changed out of his loungewear into a robust pair of canvas trousers. He preferred not to wear a tunic when he was in the forge; it was easier to wash soot and grease off of his skin than out of fabric.

    Giving up on remembering the name, Fëanor made his way to the forge-house. It was a large, plain building, with living quarters above the workshops for the smithing apprentices who came from families in towns past Tirion’s limits. The workshops were well-equipped, with the center-most one being the size of a large dining hall and a massive vat of perpetually melted iron sitting in the middle. This vat served as a central heating system to the building, in addition to being a community resource for smiths of all levels.

    Once he had gathered his tools and claimed a workshop table, Fëanor went to work on shaping the metal bowls for the steamer. His work went quickly, and within the hour he had two beautifully smooth bowls, the only ridges being those that let them stack together comfortably. He had left space in the bottom bowl for water, and began pressing holes into the top one for steam to escape through. The repetitive motion of his hammer striking the awl soothed him.

    Another few hours passed, and the steamer neared completion. He had already made the grate for clay to stand on while it steamed a few weeks ago, and all he needed to do was round the sharp edges of the metal so they would not cut their handler’s fingers.

    “I see you are finally making good on your promise!”

    Fëanor’s head snapped up from applying his tiny textured thimble to see Mahtan entering the workshop, a huge steel axe in one hand and a sharpening stone in the other. Mahtan was an impressive elf, large in stature, with curly red hair that fell wildly around his square face. His chest and arms had become thick after centuries of masterful smithing, and his skin was covered in freckles and ash. A copper piercing dotted his nose.

    “Is this of your own design?” Mahtan asked, gesturing to the steamer with his axe. Fëanor nodded, silently returning to his detail work. As he rubbed the thimble along the metal edges, Mahtan leaned the axe up against the wall. “I would tell you that your work is impressive, but praise can breed apathy, I feel.”

    “I would never let myself become apathetic,” Fëanor scoffed, brushing some metal dust off of his forearm. “I would rather jump into the sea to be eaten by Uinen’s serpents than laze around.”

    “If that is the case, why did it take you so long to finish this steamer? Nerdanel has been waiting for it.”

    _Nerdanel!_ That was her name. A mild sense of relief ran through Fëanor; he would definitely remember the elleth’s name this time. He could certainly remember what she looked like: her face, hair, and skin were just like her father’s. Mahtan clapped Fëanor on the shoulder.

    “She asks about you often. Perhaps in the future we will see the two of you dance at the Yavanasar,” Mahtan said, a joyful glow on his broad cheeks. Fëanor furrowed his brow.

    “Neither of us are old enough to dance at a fertility festival,” he replied, carefully rounding the final edge of the steamer. He removed the thimble, stacked the bowls, and held them up to Mahtan. “She can have this now.”

    “I think you should bring it to her,” said Mahtan. He winked, and Fëanor rolled his eyes.

    “I have a dinner with my father tonight, so I can’t.”

    After tucking his tools away in their rightful places, Fëanor left the forge, much to Mahtan’s protest. While Mahtan’s chiding was a bit irritating, Fëanor still felt calmed by his metallurgy, and any annoyance was easily dismissed.

    On the walk back to his family’s manor, Fëanor found himself wondering what it would be like to dance at the Yavanasar. Only upon reaching their fifth decade were elves admitted to the festival; it was considered a grand courtship opportunity for the unmarried members of society, and a celebration of partnership and abundance for those that were married. The festival happened once every ten years, and Fëanor had only heard the music and merriment from his room. By the time Nerdanel would be able to attend, he would be too.

    Fëanor pushed the thought from his mind. It was far too early to be considering courtship, and he wasn’t even that interested in Nerdanel, anyway. He had only spoken a few sentences to her, after all. Upon arriving home, he changed back into his loungewear, and went to his father’s quarters for a private dinner. Of course, he did not mention his earlier outburst, and briefly prayed to Manwë that the subject of his step-family would not come up. The Noldorin King spoke at length about political rumors and happenings of strange lands, but Fëanor did not hear much of it; he was too busy imagining what Nerdanel might look like in the coming years, dancing among Yavanna’s blossoms.

 

* * *

 

    Fëanor lasted two more years in his step-family’s shared home. It was a few days after the birth of his half-sister that he exploded at his father in a rage, crying, shouting until his voice cracked and he could no longer utter a sound.

    It was a seemingly small trigger that caused the fight. In Findis’ youthful excitement over the arrival of her baby sister, she ran through the parlor to the nursery, knocking a glass from the table Fëanor was sitting at onto the floor. It would have meant nothing if the glass had been from any other set; however, it happened to be from a set of wedding gifts that Finwë had received when he married Míriel, Fëanor’s now-deceased mother.

    The king wept that day as Fëanor gathered a few items of clothing and personal care into a trunk and dragged it to the forge, no longer able to even speak after their shouting match. Finwë did not even go to the door as his firstborn left; he simply held the chipped glass and let tears stain the silk of his tunic. Eventually, Indis brought their infant daughter to him, and Finwë stared silently into the child’s peaceful face. She resembled her mother, with white-gold wisps of hair, although her skin was darker. Írimë, they named her, and she spent her first decade hardly knowing her eldest sibling.

    Finwë saw Fëanor most often at meetings with his advisors and consuls from the other cities along the Western coast of Aman. The young prince’s presence was not always welcome; Fëanor had a habit of criticizing the policies of consuls when they did not match his own beliefs. Finwë never became impatient with him, and always spoke gently to his son.

    Twelve years passed, and a new consul was appointed for the city of Aramer, a relatively new settlement in the North. His name was Beilë, and Finwë welcomed him warmly, asking how the new settlement was getting along. Fëanor sat at Finwë’s side as usual.

    “I must admit, we are struggling with the amount of snow we receive. It can certainly disrupt the construction of watchtowers at our border. Sometimes there are drifts that tower above my head,” laughed Beilë, his eyes glittering. He was not a remarkable-looking elf, his hair black and skin dark like many of the Noldor. However, his eyes were an uncommon amber color, and his clothes were of a lower craftsmanship than the other consuls.

    “Perhaps we can request the presence of a Fire Maia. I am sure Aulë would be glad to send one of his own to assist with clearing of snow, at least until your watchtowers are complete.” Finwë’s suggestion was met with nods of agreement from his advisors. It was rare for Finwë to ask the Ainur for their help, but he had little experience with the Northern climate; it made sense to defer to a higher power for assistance. Beilë, however, shook his head.

    “I’m afraid that is not a solution available to us,” he said somberly, turning his eyes to the floor. Finwë raised an eyebrow at this.

    “Please elaborate.”

    Beilë glanced around the room, sighing and straightening his back.

    “We have asked for Aulë’s assistance many times. We have received no answer, save for once.” The consul rubbed his chin and stayed silent for a few seconds.

    “Well? What was the answer that came to you?” Fëanor’s voice seemed irritated. He had never had much patience for matters concerning the Valar. Finwë held up his hand.

    “Let the consul consider his words,” he said, not meeting Fëanor’s eyes. He knew that if he looked in his son’s face, he would only see impatience.

    “It’s alright. The prince’s concern is justified,” said Beilë, his forehead lined with what Finwë assumed was worry. The consul breathed in deeply. “One of Aulë’s servants came to tell us that the Valar could not be concerned with yet another elven settlement.”

    The other consuls murmured disbelief at this. Finwë held up his hand again, now staring intently at Beilë, and the room fell silent.

    “When did this happen?” asked Finwë.

    “A little less than a year ago, right after I was appointed as consul,” replied Beilë, his hands clasped together tightly.

    “And you didn’t send word of it immediately?” demanded Fëanor, rising to his feet. “The Valar have never denied a request for assistance to the Noldor before. What made you think this wasn’t a matter for the king’s review?”

    “Sit down, Fëanor,” said Finwë, raising his voice. Fëanor scoffed and sat down again, crossing his arms.

    “That was not the entire message,” Beilë continued. “They asked us to cease expanding our city. Apparently that Valar do not appreciate the extent to which our people have spread.”

    “That can’t be true!” exclaimed Nalyen, the consul from Alqualondë. The room erupted into concerned chatter, and this time Finwë had to stand to silence them.

    “There has to be some sort of misunderstanding. The Valar are implicitly supportive of our people’s growth. Manwë himself bestowed permission on our kingdom to make use of Aman as we see fit.” Finwë stepped toward Beilë and smiled gently. “However, we will instead commission snow-clearing plows to send to Aramer. Hopefully they will allow you to complete your watchtowers.”

    “Thank you, your majesty,” said Beilë, his voice still low. He bowed his head and leaned back slightly. Those amber eyes still glittered, lighting up the consul’s otherwise melancholy face, and Finwë felt a subtle uncomfortable flicker in his gut.

    The rest of the meeting passed fairly smoothly, and Finwë bade farewell to the consuls early. As his advisors left the council room, he turned to his son, who had not uncrossed his arms the entire meeting.

    “What plagues your mind, dearest prince?”

    “Don’t talk to me like that, I’m not a child,” spat Fëanor, not moving from his spot. His mood swings had become slightly less intrusive to their father-son relationship, but Finwë had never deigned to ask him to return to the manor. Finwë feared it would only drive him further away.

    “Your reaction to Beilë’s statement about Aulë was considerably visceral,” the king said smoothly, forcing his tone to be conversational.

    “Well, considering that the Valar have been ignoring our people for the past two decades, I would say that my reaction is warranted,” replied Fëanor. He loosened his arms slightly and Finwë furrowed his brow.

    “They have not ignored us. Such talk is heretical. Just last year, Yavanna sent our house seeds for a peach tree.”

    “When was the last time you spoke with one of the Vala?” asked Fëanor. He looked his father directly in the eye with this statement, and Finwë felt almost attacked.

    “It matters not. They have not abandoned us in any sense, and I will hear no more of this talk against them,” he said firmly, standing up. He gestured for Fëanor to follow him. “Why don’t we go visit Mahtan and his daughter?”

    “I have a snow plow to design,” Fëanor sighed, brushing a crease out of his vest.

    “I was planning to ask Mahtan to do it,” the king said as his son strode off towards the exit.

    “Don’t bother.”

    Fëanor’s retort made Finwë laugh softly. Only his eldest could find a way to be rude when performing a favor.

**Author's Note:**

> Ilúvatar: the almighty creator-god of the universe.  
> Ainur: Ilúvatar's disciples and gods of Arda.  
> The Ainulindalë: a description of the creation of Arda (the world) by Ilúvatar and the Ainur.  
> Maiar: lesser gods, often disciples of the Ainur.  
> Elleth: female elf.  
> 


End file.
